Have you ever held a tadpole?
There were some in my grandfather's pond
and I used to run my hand through the water
to feel their rubbery bodies writhe
through the gaps between my fingers.

Even then as a child
I was awestruck at the potential
of those tiny, wriggling things.
To know those dark and determined pearls
might one day become frogs.

Did they know then
what the future would hold?
That they could transform themselves
and leap forward into a new life?


I kept caterpillars around that time.
Flown halfway across the world by my uncle,
we'd put them in a box with a windowed front
and watch them grow into pudgy things
with little bumpy feet.

They'd string themselves up
and wrap themselves tightly in silk casings.
It's the same potential, but less immediate
when you can't feel them in your hands.
Still. The waiting was fascinating.

Did they know then
what the future would hold?
That they would emerge from that blanket
fragile and full of life?


I wonder how they felt,
in their tiny cardboard paradise
filled with plants grown just for them.
The world must have seemed so small.
Yet they changed anyway.

Or the tadpoles in their pond,
surrounded by fish and stringy weeds
and the prodding fingers of youth.
They didn't know the surface.
Yet they changed anyway.

Or that child watching intently,
knelt by the pond or sat by the box,
trapped in their own way by a life
that they didn't know why they feared.
Yet...

Did that child know then
what the future would hold?